Dark Angel: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  “No! It was Manning, Manning who shot them!”

  “You can discuss it with Manning when you share a cell with him in Newgate.” John Sands would be dead long before his appointment with the scaffold.

  “Newgate! No! The man will throttle me in my sleep.” Agitated, Sands thrashed about violently, fought and struggled to break free. “No! You can’t. Not with Manning. No!” He pounded Dante’s back with his fist, forcing Dante to release him.

  The man was possessed by such a frenzy, he could barely keep still. He went to take another swipe at Dante, but swung too quickly, lost his footing and tumbled backwards. The crack of the wooden rail splintering preceded the harrowing cries as John Sands fell to the ground.

  Bower and Sloane hurried to the body. But darkness was descending, and Dante’s only thought was finding Beatrice.

  “Beatrice!” he cried as he hurried down the rickety staircase. “Beatrice!”

  Daventry met him on the ground floor near the grain sacks. “Quick, help me move them.” Daventry grabbed a sack and dragged it away from the wall. “Miss Sands came in here asking for help. The miller hid her in a small cupboard and then took his family to the cottage.”

  “A cupboard?”

  Dante quickly helped Daventry move the sacks to reveal a small cubbyhole no more than three feet high. He dropped to his knees and pushed the wooden panel aside. It was dark outside, hard to see, even darker in the tiny space.

  “Beatrice?”

  He heard heavy breathing, muffled sobs. He reached into the hole and moved the old sacks. Beatrice lay curled in a ball, trembling to her toes. He touched her.

  “No! Get away!”

  “It’s Dante, love. Take my hand. Let me help you out of there.”

  “Dante?” came her whispered reply.

  “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

  She moved slightly, raised her head, stretched out a shaky hand.

  He pulled her out of the filthy hole, wrapped his arms around her and held her so tight to his chest they both struggled to breathe.

  Daventry tapped him gently on the back. “I’ll leave you with Miss Sands while I deal with her uncle. We’ll need to alert the coroner and the local magistrate. I expect we’ll be here for a few hours.”

  Beatrice raised her head. “The coroner?”

  Dante pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, stroked her tear-stained face. “Your uncle is dead. He fell off the gallery. But he’s got a wound to his shoulder, and the magistrate will want to know why.”

  More tears fell, and she pressed her forehead to his chest. “Forgive me, Dante.” She sobbed into his cravat. “I shouldn’t have gone to see Manning without telling you. But Miss Trimble—”

  “Hush, love. It doesn’t matter now.” He looked at Daventry. “Manning shot my parents. John Sands was his accomplice. Perhaps you should send Ashwood to fetch Sir Malcolm. If we’re to give lengthy statements, I’d prefer to do it once.”

  Daventry nodded. “Ashwood can take Sloane’s carriage. Bower will need to remain here and explain why he shot a man.” He glanced at Beatrice. “Miss Sands might like to visit the miller’s cottage. His wife is making tea.”

  “We’ll be along shortly.”

  Daventry left them alone.

  Dante held Beatrice close. He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer of thanks, and let his love for her consume him until he could contain it no longer.

  “Beatrice.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  She swallowed, blinked back fresh tears. “You are?”

  “I’m so in love with you it hurts, hurts to think I might lose—”

  She pressed her finger to his lips to silence him. “As we’re bartering for information, know that I’m in love with you, Dante. I’m so in love with you it’s like a bright light burning inside me.”

  He felt the light, too, so warm and comforting. It chased away the darkness, brought with it hope and infinite possibilities.

  “I told your uncle you were my wife, and I hate lying.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “He cannot hold it against you. Not anymore.”

  “But it felt so good to say the words.” He paused, took a second to take a breath, to look back along the rocky path and appreciate how far he’d come. “Marry me. Let me take care of you always.”

  She reached up and cupped his nape, pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him so deeply his heart swelled. “Yes,” she whispered against his lips. “I want to be your wife, the mother of your children. I want to take care of you always.”

  They held each other for a while, wallowed in a rare moment of happiness.

  Beatrice looked up at him, a little forlorn. “It’s all over now. The case is solved. We’ve no need to work together.”

  He kissed her softly on the mouth. “You’re wrong, love. Our work together has only just begun.”

  Chapter 21

  The morning light found its way through a crack in the curtains. Dante covered his eyes with his arm, silently moaning so as not to wake Beatrice. But his brain fired into action, the events of last night bouncing back and forth in his mind.

  They’d not arrived home until midnight. Daventry and Sir Malcolm had dealt with John Sands’ death, but the laborious task of giving statements had taken longer than expected.

  Afterwards, Beatrice had agreed to come to Fitzroy Square to explain what she had learned from her uncle. Together they’d sat before the roaring fire in the drawing room, swigging brandy while discussing the case. They’d made love there. Made love in bed a little later, and she had agreed to spend the night.

  Dante feared he’d not let her out of his sight again. But it was unhealthy to concoct stories about future events, unhealthy to live life as if awaiting a tragedy. And so he would do as Beatrice suggested and make the most of every moment.

  Thankfully, he’d woken with a throbbing erection, and so he turned on his side, ready to run his hand over the gentle flare of her hip, hoping his betrothed might like to take advantage of his excited disposition.

  But he was alone in bed.

  He rubbed his eyes, came up on his elbow and scoured the room. A quick scan of the floor and his heart sank. His clothes were scattered about the place, hers nowhere to be seen.

  He jumped out of bed, slightly panicked. So much for avoiding unhealthy stories. He imagined she was an early riser, but it was almost midday. He imagined a worried Miss Trimble hammering the door, but they had told their friends of their intention to marry. Surely no one begrudged them a little privacy.

  He grabbed his clothes, shook out the creases and dressed quickly.

  What if she’d left? What if she couldn’t live with the fact her uncle was responsible for the death of Dante’s parents?

  You will come to see me as a physical reminder of your pain.

  But they’d discussed it last night.

  And then the chamber door creaked open, and the love of his life slipped into the room so as not to wake him.

  She almost jumped out of her skin when she turned and saw him looming.

  “Good Lord! You gave me a fright. I thought you were asleep.”

  “I woke in an affectionate mood, hoped you might give me another chance to express my abiding love.”

  She glanced at his breeches and smiled. “I’m sure an opportunity will arise again shortly.”

  “No doubt.” He only had to think of her, and blood rushed to his loins.

  She set a package down on the chair. “Are we going back to bed, or shall I ring to say we’d like breakfast?”

  “I’d not planned on leaving this room today.”

  “Good.” She began unbuttoning her pelisse, stripping for him until she stood in nothing but her chemise.

  He followed suit, removed every item of clothing until naked.

  Beatrice considered him with an appreciative eye. “Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”

  Dante glanced at the brown paper p
ackage. “Home, I presume.”

  She nodded. “A note arrived in Howland Street for me this morning. Bateson has one for you, too, from Sir Malcolm.” She paused, stepped closer and touched his chest. “Dante, they found Mr Manning hanging in his cell. Somehow he located a length of rope. Somehow he tied it to the bars and hung himself.”

  Hung himself?

  Manning would never have taken his own life.

  “More like someone wrapped a rope around his neck and throttled him until he was dead. There’ll be an investigation.” Though who the hell would want justice for Mortuary Manning?

  A conversation he’d had with Daventry and Sir Malcolm in the miller’s cottage flitted into his mind. Both men had assured him Manning would never see the light of day. Both men assured Beatrice there would be no need to spend sleepless nights fearing Manning might call.

  “Do you feel cheated?” she said, stroking his chest. “Did you want to see him stand trial for murdering your parents?”

  “They couldn’t have tried him for the crime. There’s no evidence other than your testimony, and I refuse to put you through the distress of seeing Manning in court.”

  No, everything had worked out for the best.

  She came up on her toes and kissed him. “Let me give you my gift before we climb back into bed.”

  Dante arched a curious brow. “Gift? It’s not the silver tea tray, is it?”

  Clearly excited, she hurried to the chair and retrieved the small rectangular object. “A tea tray big enough for one cup? No. It’s something Mr Bower helped me find. He’s spent two days trailing around every trinket shop in Bermondsey.”

  “Trinket shop?” A lump formed in Dante’s throat. “Not the trinket shop where Babington sold my father’s cheroot case?”

  “Thankfully, the owner had taken a liking to it and kept it for himself. I’ve paid far more than expected. The man described Mr Babington perfectly, so I’m sure it’s the right one.”

  Dante stared at her, his heart ready to burst.

  “Mr Bower meant to give it to me yesterday, but what with all—”

  He kissed her, kissed her like she was the air he needed to breathe.

  When he straightened, she had tears in her eyes.

  “Please open it. If it’s not the right one, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “I won’t. My mother gave my father the gift because she loved him. I recall the look on both their faces when he opened it.” He looked down at the wrapped case. “Love prompted you to give me this gift. Regardless of what it is, I shall treasure it always.”

  He wiped a single tear from her cheek and set about ripping the paper.

  He had not cried since he was eight years old, yet the thought of losing Beatrice had drawn a tear from his eye. Seeing the hunting scene painted on the case, seeing the image of his father sitting proudly on his mount, brought another tear trickling down his cheek.

  “Is it? Is it the same one?” she asked eagerly.

  Dante inhaled deeply and scrubbed his hand down his face. “Yes, it’s my father’s case.” He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and she lay her head against his shoulder. “My mother used to say he loved those hounds more than anything. But she knew he would never love anyone the way he loved her.”

  “Mr Sloane told me Farthingdale is for sale. Perhaps you might like to purchase a house in the country.”

  For a heartbeat, the idea seemed appealing. But he’d spent his life living in the past. “I would rather focus on our future, rather we started anew, let our parents rest in peace.”

  “We need to let them go now,” she agreed.

  A vision of him clutching his mother’s body flashed into his mind. Perhaps a part of him would always be the heartbroken boy at the roadside. Perhaps a man was the sum of all his experiences.

  He kissed her hair, inhaled her scent. “Were it not for the tragedy, we might never have met.” He could not bear the thought of that either. And so he made a vow to stop inventing stories.

  She sensed his disquiet. The dainty hand on his chest began moving in caressing strokes, healing his scars, soothing his fears. She dipped fractionally lower each time, her fingers grazing the hard contours of his abdomen until she dared to slide her hand down the length of his cock.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered. “Let’s spend a few hours here, and then you can take me to Gunter’s. You can feed me lemon ice despite the fact it’s cold outside.”

  This woman knew how to flood every dark memory with a ray of sunshine.

  He turned to face her and smiled. “Pineapple mousse would be my choice for you, my love.”

  She laughed. “And why is that?”

  “Like you, it’s soft and sweet and so deliciously tempting.”

  “And for you, Dante, I shall choose a pyramid of macaroons.”

  “Because they’re hard and smooth on the outside, soft in the centre?”

  She looked deep into his eyes. “Because you love them, and I love you. And I wish to spend every day of my life making you happy.”

  “I love you,” he said, his chaste kiss of appreciation quickly becoming a rampant mating of mouths, a mating that lasted well into the afternoon.

  * * *

  Highwood, Bedfordshire

  Evan Sloane’s country residence

  “How does it feel to be married to Dante D’Angelo?” Sybil Daventry asked as the wives of the men who worked for the Order huddled together in Mr Sloane’s drawing room.

  Flutters of excitement made Beatrice silently chuckle. She’d been Dante’s wife for three hours and had worn a permanent grin ever since. “He’s everything a woman could want in a husband.” Everything a woman would want in a lover and a friend.

  All the women glanced across the room at their respective husbands and nodded.

  “I imagine they’re discussing Mr Craddock’s trial.” Vivienne Sloane sipped her champagne. “At the very least, he’ll get seven years transportation.”

  If only Mr Craddock had gone to the authorities when Mr Babington blackmailed him. But the fear of debtors’ prison made men lose all rationale.

  “The gossips say he killed Mr Babington, but the witnesses described a thin man who was fast on his feet.” Beatrice had read numerous reports in the broadsheets stating that Mr Babington had ventured all over the country, using aliases to dupe unsuspecting people out of funds. The wider the news spread, the more victims came forward. “The man had a lot of enemies.”

  Sophia Cole touched Beatrice gently on the upper arm. “I imagine you’re relieved now the case is over. At the same time, you’re probably missing the thrill of the chase.”

  “It’s exciting until you have something to lose,” she said, wondering how she would cope when Dante was given his next assignment. “How do you sleep at night knowing they place themselves in danger?”

  Sybil Daventry sighed. “Lucius takes his responsibilities seriously. He ensures they’re trained to defend themselves, instinctively knows when to pair them together on a case. And they’re all extremely skilled agents.”

  As if hearing his wife’s praise, Lucius Daventry glanced at Sybil, and his hard exterior softened. He inclined his head, devotion and respect swimming in his dark eyes.

  “But you work for the Order, Beatrice,” Eva Ashwood said, stroking her abdomen in such a way one knew she was with child. “How will Dante cope when you’re faced with a new client?”

  Dante wouldn’t have to worry. She had decided to take another role in Lucius Daventry’s organisation. The master of the Order had saved her, and now it was her turn to save someone else.

  “Rather than accept a new case, I’m to assist Miss Trimble. Four new ladies are moving into Howland Street this week, all women without prospects or funds.” But she suspected Miss Trimble needed her the most.

  Sybil nodded. “My husband is paying for them to stay at the Clarendon Hotel. I believe one of them caught a pickpocket loitering in the lobby.”

  Eva’s eyes
widened. “Will they all be agents?”

  “I believe so. Lucius agreed to follow Dante’s advice and consider their assignments carefully. They already have a potential client. Lord Devereaux wants to hire an agent, but Lucius told him only female agents were for hire. Told him the men only work to help those without funds.”

  “Lord Devereaux?” Sophia wiggled a brow. “The man can click his fingers and have anything he wants. Why would he need to hire an agent?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Eva chuckled. “Do you know, Sybil, when one considers the fact all the gentlemen of the Order are now married, one wonders if your husband is skilled in matchmaking.”

  They all laughed.

  And yet Beatrice couldn’t help thinking there was some truth to the theory.

  “If that’s the case, he’ll fall foul with Lord Devereaux,” Sophia said. “The man has a new mistress every six months, though they all look remarkably similar.”

  Sybil suddenly gasped. “Quick, Beatrice. Your husband is prowling towards us like a panther in need of an afternoon bite.”

  “I’ll lay odds he wants you to inspect the broom cupboard,” Vivienne whispered. “Or he’s lost his sapphire stickpin and needs your help upstairs.”

  Beatrice smiled. “It will take an hour to search the room thoroughly.”

  Dante approached, looking extremely handsome in his dark blue coat. He bowed. “Ladies. I’ve come to steal my wife.”

  “Have you lost something, Dante?” Vivienne teased.

  “My mind if I’m to be parted from Beatrice a moment longer.”

  The ladies sighed.

  Dante offered his hand. “Mrs D’Angelo, might I invite you to take an afternoon stroll?”

  Beatrice couldn’t wait to be alone with him. She’d not spoken to him properly since yesterday afternoon. And since making their vows, their friends had monopolised their attention.

  She gripped his hand. “I’d like nothing more than to spend an hour alone with you, Dante.”